Quick Fix
by Rhianwen
Summary: She knows that she could change things for the better with just a little effort. But there’s something to be said for a quick fix every now and again. PostROD TV. JokerWendy.


Quick-Fix

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, but darned if I wouldn't like to rent Wendy for the weekend.

* * *

Summary: She knows that she could change things for the better with just a little effort. But there's something to be said for a quick-fix every now and again. Post-ROD TV. Joker/Wendy. Weird. Implied Evil Goings On and mild violence.

* * *

Last night, she had a one-night fling.

It was the sort that her mother always told her _nice_ girls don't have, but added with twinkling eyes that she ought to try once, because after all, nice girls were dull, and she didn't want _her_ daughter to be dull.

It was a stupid thing to do, of course - _testing_ him this way, just because he wouldn't talk to her except in short, bitter, caustic bursts that made her want to slap him out of this pit of futile anger and depression that he spent most of his days mired in just now.

It was one thing to take it out on her if it made him feel better, because at least it would have a purpose, when she winced at his carefully honed and practiced cruelty and tried to smile encouragingly despite the pain blurring her vision. It was quite another if it accomplished nothing aside from dragging her in after him. She couldn't help him if she hurt too much to move.

But it had been this way for weeks. Ever since he had regained his mind and sharp intelligence. Ever since he had woken to the knowledge that a lifetime of goals and dreams were nothing more than a heap of rubble and horrifying memories in the minds of everyone who had been involved, and the realization that his unswerving faith had been as sorely misplaced as hers.

It was around then that it had been driven home with painful clarity that she had really liked him much better when he had been helpless, an overgrown child that would become easily disoriented and cling to her when it stormed outside at night.

He _had_ clung to her then, and buried his face in her shoulder against waves of pain at choosing so utterly the wrong path and earning angry rebuke from the one that he did all of this for in the first place. She held him and tried, uselessly, to soothe and comfort because she knows very well what it is like, to give everything for someone and have it shoved in her face again and again that it isn't enough and never will be.

It was certainly no reason to take an idiotic chance and earn an even greater portion of his contempt and anger.

But people do things for no reason all the time, don't they?

She went to the sort of bar that no _nice_ girl would be caught dead in.

There, she drank steadily until she met the sort of man that no _nice_ girl would give the time of day.

An hour of suggestive small-talk and several more drinks later, they were in a room in a nearby cheap motel, impatiently flinging one another's clothes aside.

It was the kind of thing that _nice_ girls would be aghast at, and it was kind of good.

Really good.

Incredibly good.

The kind of good that makes you think the impossible, that you can get a relationship out of this sort of man.

But only for a while.

When they were in bed, tangled around each other, breathing and crying out together, when she was shaking with need and could feel the world shattering to pieces around her, the name on her lips was not that of the man tangling his hand in her hair and gripping her hip and breathing quickly and harshly and hotly against her shoulder.

She doesn't know _that_ name – she never did ask.

Too bad the name she had to choke back with her years of experience at not saying the wrong thing was who it was; getting a relationship out of _that_ sort of man is impossible, too.

It was like waking up from a dream of being happy, only to find him there, reminding her smugly that she never would, because she _couldn't_, not without him, and that she would never have him because he doesn't _like_ plain, ordinary women like her.

A girl has to have a bloody super-power to register on _his_ radar. And even then, it's usually in a bad way.

Maybe he doesn't like women at all?

The two in the bed disengaged almost immediately after, and dressed with equal haste, like naughty little kids afraid of being discovered in a forbidden pastime.

She watched this stranger's arrogant swagger – with a body like that, he _deserved_ to swagger – as he disappeared into the washroom, and she felt oddly cheated.

A perfectly good meaningless encounter, ruined by being madly, idiotically, hopelessly in love with someone else!

* * *

And now she is back, inevitably, with him.

Where she belongs.

There's something new in the way he's watching her tonight, but won't talk to her, and it gives her a strange sensation down the back of her neck.

"Have a nice time last night?" he finally asks lightly, his smile cold and mocking, and she wants to hit him, because there is no anger in his words or his tone or that damned smile, and she did this to scare a reaction from him with her stupid carelessness, even if she didn't really, because it was completely unplanned and idiotic now that she thinks about it.

Not that she'll admit that to him. _Impulse_ has no place in his vocabulary, and it isn't meant to have any place in hers. Of course, neither is _petty manipulation_ or_ desperate attempt to make him care_.

But that isn't what this was about, is it? She was trying to make him react, wake up from the cycle of his thoughts: pain at his own failure to anger at hers and back to pain at his to better prepare her so that this could have been avoided.

For his own good. She'll sacrifice anything for him. Even give up a free evening to fantastic sex with a gorgeous stranger.

"Very nice," she replies absently, glancing up briefly before returning to her book, because of course she is reading – anyone who lives with him will begin reading in self-defense. "I think I might make a point to get out more often."

There. Time for the explosion of fury that she would so carelessly risk their safety for childish selfishness. A shouting match will do them both some good. Didn't Mum always say that you have to fight with a man on occasion to be able to live with him? They're well overdue.

"What was his name?"

And apparently, they'll remain so.

"I never asked."

"You didn't ask your _date_ his name?"

"We didn't do much talking."

"No, I don't imagine you did."

There is something in his voice now, something sharp and raw, and she can see his features becoming tense and fury creeping into his eyes, and she can feel the shouting match only a breath away.

"I'm going to bed," she announces, starting hastily for the door.

"Never bothered to find out his name," he says, contempt lacing his words. "There are names for girls who do things like that. None of them are very nice."

"I haven't been _nice_ in a long time," she murmurs. "Not since you decided that _nice_ equaled _irritating_ and _useless_. It's only too bad that you've changed your mind again."

"This self-pity is not at all becoming," he says sharply.

"It isn't self-pity," she returns, just as sharply, because even if it is true, what right does he have to talk to her about self-pity? "And anyway, I thought you _liked_ those sorts of girls."

"And that's why you went and found some flea-ridden man in a bar and behaved like a little—"

"Don't say it."

"Then don't act like one," he suggests lightly.

"You _don't_ like them, then?"

He rises from his chair.

"You will never do this again. Understood?"

She stops, but doesn't turn, and smirks a bit.

"What if I just don't mention it when I do?"

"If you do this again, I will find him. At the least, he'll wish he had never touched you. At the worst, he may not retain the…necessary equipment."

"Good luck managing that."

Before she can start toward the doorway again, a hand lands lightly on her shoulder, and she turns, reluctantly, but never for a second thinking of not responding to the subtle signal.

"I don't suggest pressing the issue."

It would be _so_ nice to release some tension shouting at him that he has no right to be angry, because he could have had her at a word but couldn't be bothered to expend the effort to _say_ it. But it sounds too absurd to say aloud, because he _did_ have her at a word, or at least a phrase, even if it wasn't specifically the one she wanted to hear. _I love you_ might be nice, but _Mine, and don't damn well forget it_ carries special meanings of its own.

She starts to say something unspeakably rude, even if she doesn't know what it is yet. But it doesn't matter, because his finger is pressing tightly against her lips to stop her.

"Do you understand?" Not pleasant anymore, but not quite threatening.

She shrugs him off roughly and nods, arms crossed like a petulant child. He watches her for another moment from the doorway, eyes narrowed.

"Good."

"Right. Goodnight," she mutters, stepping around him and starting for the door. Sleep be damned, she's a second away from hunting up her friend at the bar again.

At the doorway between the hallway and the front entry, she stops, one hand resting at the door frame.

"Really, it's a little rich that you'll get angry over this, but you still won't do anything yourself." She smiles charmingly at him over her shoulder. "Or can't, maybe? I suppose it would explain why you've lost your appreciation for _that_ sort of girl. So sad…you're not even that old."

And now he does look angry, very angry, and she wishes she hadn't said it. It's a little frightening, although it's probably just the novelty of seeing his mouth tighten and his eyes grow dark with something far deeper than the annoyance she's experienced from him all of twice.

It _was_ an awfully stupid thing to say, after all. Best to leave. Or apologize. She'll make it sound sincere; she's always been good at that.

She's hesitated a second too long.

Without warning, his hand tangles in her hair and yanks roughly. Startled, she yelps before she can stop herself, and at the sound his hand tightens and he half-throws her face first into the stairs, her forehead bouncing off the sharp edge of the step. She cries out more in surprise and outrage than in pain, and when his weight pins her down, his chest pressed tightly to her back until she can barely breathe, her attempts to squirm away are mostly to assuage her own conscience.

His mouth finds the back of her ear, biting down sharply, and even through the haze of anger and the growing haze of something else _close_ to anger but not, she hates herself for the low moan that she thinks might be coming from her, hates herself for the way her had almost automatically finds the back of his neck to pull him closer as his tongue traces frantic patterns over her neck and shoulder. Her blouse is unbuttoned, and even though she has no idea when _that_ happened, she has no intention of complaining, even if she can hear fabric ripping as he seizes the collar and drags it back off of her. Maybe she'll make him replace it when she can string together a coherent thought again.

Or maybe she'll stop wearing them altogether, if this is what happens, his hand cupping and squeezing her breast roughly through the translucent black lace she planned to tell him she bought for her friend at the bar. She grinds back against him as he twists at one sweetly sensitive dark rosy nipple, and a sharp gasp catches a little in her throat as his arousal digs into the curve of her lower back.

She twists in his arms, trying to kiss him, and now he's flipping her over roughly and shoving her back down again. His lips are tense and demanding on hers, and somehow she hadn't imagined that he'd be very good at this, but even though there are stairs digging into her back and her head is throbbing where she hit it when he pushed her down, there is nothing lacking in this; the sharp tug of his teeth at the corner of her lip; the faint taste of copper blood filling her mouth; his low groan as his tongue catches a droplet; his thumb on her chin, urging her mouth open. Her hands are sliding back into his hair and she's arching shamelessly up against him, begging him wordlessly for more.

And somehow, it seems so very like _him_, that just as he has managed to make her beg, he pulls away and watches her, curiously amused.

"I don't know who the man was," he says with a faint catch of laughter in his voice, "but he clearly didn't do much to…ah, fill the void."

"Actually, he was fantastic," she shoots back as airily as though the heat of his hands and mouth wasn't still ringing through her. "A meteor could have hit, and I wouldn't have noticed."

His forearms press sharply against her shoulders, and it is somehow a massive effort to regulate her ragged breathing as his brushes hotly against her cheek.

"I'm sure he's telling his mates a very different story about the cold, unresponsive little shrew he passed yesterday evening with." His voice is smoothly patronizing, and she can feel her fingers itching to slap him, but fights back the urge and smiles up at him sweetly.

"Unresponsive. I think I split the poor man's eardrum."

"You seem to have no idea when to shut up tonight," he murmurs into her ear, low and lethal.

"That's better than being a cold, unresponsive little shrew, isn't it?" she manages, trying to twist away from the increasingly tight pressure of his arm slipping up to her throat.

He climbs stiffly off of her, and pulls her to her feet. She chokes around a laugh, hysterical and out of nowhere, at this uncharacteristic show of chivalry.

"Upstairs. Now."

"Is that an order? Sir?"

"It's the only time I'll ask you."

"_That_ wasn't asking."

He smirks, and takes her hand with exaggerated politeness.

"Would you care to join me upstairs, my dear?"

* * *

Yes, thank-you, Mr. Carpenter.

Of course, _that_ should go without saying by now, articulated with crystal clarity in the two of them tangled up in the sheets of her bed and in each other and in the confusion of whether he's trying to make her cry out in pain or pleasure and in whether or not she could tell the difference now anyway. The first time she cries out he tightens his hand in her hair, and presses his mouth against her throat until her sounds die down to a gasping whimper, and presses his thigh tightly between hers, so she does it again and again and his answering groan, thick with mounting desire, nearly sends her over the edge.

One hand closes over her breast and his other hand slides down her shoulder and over her stomach and she can feel his breath following that path too but she can't breathe herself and doesn't want to and she would be happy to die this way because now his hand is gripping the inside of her thigh and his mouth is brushing over her waist, tongue tracing along her hip bone, and she knows she'll wake up breathless and drenched from this dream for months, long slender fingers seeking out and stroking the source of that fierce ache that practically had his _name_ on it because no one else could possibly do this to her.

With a series of cries that gradually melt into one continuous noise, she squirms desperately beneath him, trying to intensify the sensation that is sending bolts of heat through her blood and making thought impossible.

And soon enough, far too soon, he moves his hand away, and she sits up dizzily to find out what's wrong just in time to be seized and dragged down on top of him.

* * *

Later, although neither is exactly sure how much later, they lay, still entwined, breathing slowing gradually and coherency returning.

A long moment later, he shifts slightly to look down at her, lips curving up into a faint smirk.

"Now, there. Wasn't that a little better than running off to a filthy bar somewhere and accosting some dirt-encrusted stranger?"

"Marginally," she replies pertly after some deep consideration.

"And you do understand, of course, that a second offence won't be forgiven quite so easily?"

"Easily? My head is still throbbing."

He laughs softly.

"Just remember that it could have been far worse than that."

And maybe there's something a little sick – _incredibly_ sick – in the way that this implied threat makes her flush with girlish bashfulness and complete and total love of him; and in the way that her arms are winding trustingly around his neck; and in this desire to laugh bubbling up from nowhere. But there is no one around to look at him in loathing and at her in disgust and pity, and _he_ seems anything but disgusted right now.

Maybe it's another illusion, another manipulation of reality just as soon as reality in itself isn't convenient anymore, and maybe it's just more overwhelming evidence that there is something very, very wrong with them.

But the comforting warmth of his arm around her waist and the drowsy heat of his breath stirring her hair are as seductive as any suggestive murmur or suggestive look or demanding kiss could possibly be.

And even though this won't change anything in the long run, won't help either of them at all, and she _could_ do something that would change things for the better if she wanted to, she doesn't; instead, she snuggles happily against his shoulder and lets another chance for _real_ change slip away.

There's something to be said for a quick-fix every now and again.

* * *

End Notes: Whoo! This one's been about…a year in the works. And I think it's finally good!


End file.
